


Big Big Love

by standbygo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Falling In Love, Inspired by Music, M/M, POV Minor Character, Speedy's Cafe, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 10:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4300755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr. Chatterjee's point of view of the strange flatmates next door to Speedy's Café.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Big Love

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.
> 
> This is not infatuation  
> It's true love's sensation  
> It's not my imagination  
> I got a big big love  
> \- kd lang, Big Big Love
> 
> This fic is less about the lyrics of the song, and more about the feeling and mood of the song in general. To me, it’s the internal soundtrack to that day you realize you are in love, and are loved in return. So if you like, listen to the song and imagine John and Sherlock walking down Baker Street, hand in hand.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qg4cC9WSHg (if you need the soundtrack)

Mr. Chatterjee was cleaning off the tables in the café when a cab pulled up next door. A man hopped out of the front seat. At first Mr. Chatterjee paid the cab and its passenger no notice – this was a fairly busy street, after all, close to the heavy traffic on Marylebone, it was the reason he’d bought this place – until the man started pulling boxes out of the car. A few minutes later, Mr. Chatterjee was staring in frank astonishment at the number of boxes on the pavement; how the man had fit that many boxes into the car was remarkable.

Now the man in the long coat seemed to be arguing or negotiating with the cabbie, pointing at the flat upstairs. The cabbie shook his head, shrugged, threw up his hands, and finally accepted a note from his passenger. He picked up one box and slung it up onto his shoulder.

Even from inside the café Mr. Chatterjee heard the passenger shout, “Careful, you moron! There’s delicate material in there!”

The cabbie put down the box, handed back the note, stepped back into the cab, and drove away.

Mr. Chatterjee decided that now would be practical time to move away from the window.

 _My dear neighbour Mrs. Hudson must have a new tenant_ , he thought.

+

Over the next few months, Mr. Chatterjee became increasingly concerned about the number of times he saw police cars and ambulances parked in front of his neighbour’s door. He wondered about the strange, bossy man with all the boxes, and worried for Mrs. Hudson. A very nice English lady, she should not have trouble like this tenant seemed to cause.

Then Mrs. Hudson came by for a pastry and a chat, and he confessed his concerns to her.

“Oh, no, Sherlock’s fine! He’s Sherlock Holmes, a detective, dear. The police aren’t coming for him, they’re coming _for_ him, you see?”

He didn’t. English was such a strange language. 

+

A short blond man began to be a regular customer. He would often come and order a tea, drink it at one of the patio tables if it was fine out, then ask for more hot water over the same tea bag. Mr. Chatterjee recognized frugality when he saw it. He allowed it, remembering what it was like to watch every penny.

One day the short man and the strange tall man who was apparently named Sherlock Holmes came in together; a tea for the short man, an Americano for Mr. Holmes. Mr. Chatterjee realized that they were likely flatmates upstairs. Privately he found this realization quite funny. They were a study in opposites: short and tall, blond and dark, polite and bossy.

They sat at a table inside – it was drizzling and cold out – and talked intently as they drank. Mr. Chatterjee could hear the words “victim” and “murder” and “motive” and gave that table a wide berth.

After a time, the blond man came up to the counter for more hot water.

“John?” called Mr. Holmes from the back. “Are you – are you _reusing_ your tea bag?”

The short man – John – flushed. “Sherlock, don’t-”

Mr. Holmes strode towards the counter, a frown wrinkling his brow. “That’s vile, John,” he snapped, and slammed a two pound coin down on the counter. “A proper tea for Dr. Watson, please, Mr. Chatterjee.”

+

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson became fairly regular customers. They would come in for a tea, or coffee, or a quick meal. Mr. Chatterjee learned to tell whether they were or were not on a case: when they were not on a case, they would both eat; when they were on a case, only Dr. Watson would order and Mr. Holmes would sit in silence. Occasionally he would steal a piece of toast when Dr. Watson’s back was turned. After a while, Mr. Chatterjee began to suspect that Dr. Watson would deliberately turn his back, to ignore the theft. Mr. Chatterjee learned to add extra toast to Dr. Watson’s order.

One day, during a busy lunch rush, the two men were sitting at the back table. Mr. Holmes was sitting in stony silence, his hands pressed together, his fingertips at his lips. Dr. Watson was wolfing his way through a full English breakfast, and Mr. Chatterjee couldn’t blame him; Mr. Holmes would often jump up and run out the door and Dr. Watson would sigh and leave behind his plate half finished.

He could hear his staff making quiet bets amongst themselves about whether Dr. Watson would get to finish his meal.

Suddenly Mr. Holmes gasped, loudly enough to be heard over the chatter and buzz of the lunch crowd. He stood, his chair scraping over the linoleum floor. At first, Mr. Chatterjee thought the man was about to run out the door as usual, but instead Mr. Holmes walked over to the blackboard where the specials were written in chalk.

“Sherlock,” Dr. Watson said quietly, warningly.

Mr. Holmes wiped the slate clean with his sleeve. Mr. Chatterjee watched the words “Apple Crumble” and “Banoffee Pie” disappear. Mr. Holmes did not look to the right or left, but focused on the blackboard as though it was the only thing in the world. He picked up the chalk and began to write.

“Sherlock,” Dr. Watson hissed.

The café fell silent as words appeared under Mr. Holmes’ hand – EXSANGUINATION. INCEST. NEPHEW. INHERITANCE. STRANGLED. Mr. Chatterjee watched helplessly as a woman dragged her protesting children out the door. The rest of the patrons seemed frozen in place.

Mr. Holmes drew some arrows between the words, and stared at the board. He said, “Oh. Oh. OH!”, then ran to the door shouting, “Come on, John!”

Dr. Watson jumped out and ran after him, throwing a ten pound note and a look of anguished apology at Mr. Chatterjee on the way out.

Mr. Chatterjee felt all the eyes of the people in the café turn to him as the door slammed shut. He cleared his throat and turned to his remaining customers.

“He is a big detective. He – he has just solved a murder, I think. He is going to get the criminal now, put him in jail. Please forgive the interruption.” He turned to his staff and said quietly, “Please get free coffee for everyone, Nigel. Anna, please rewrite the specials on the board. And Andrew, I believe you owe Anna five pounds.”

+

Mr. Holmes came into the café just as Mr. Chatterjee was opening. He was carrying a basket covered with a cloth.

“Mr. Chatterjee, I’ve something for you. You are to use this for John, and John only, do you understand?”

“Sir?”

Mr. Holmes pulled the cloth off the basket, revealing a teapot, a box of loose tea, tall, thin glass containers, a strainer, and a thermometer.

“I’ve written it all down for you,” he said. “Heat the water to boiling, and pour immediately as it comes off the boil, within ten seconds. Seven point five grams of loose tea, exactly. For God’s sake, don’t forget to warm the pot. Add the boiling water and steep for precisely three minutes and fifteen seconds. Twenty millilitres of milk, placed in the cup _before_ the tea. Four grams of sugar. Decant immediately, through the strainer into the cup. Double cup to retain the heat. Don’t let John see. All right?”

“I-” Mr. Chatterjee was blinking in astonishment. “Mr. Holmes-”

“I’ll make it worth your while,” Mr. Holmes said. He held out the instructions. “I laminated them for you.”

Mr. Holmes turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Mr. Chatterjee holding the basket in one hand and the plastic sheet in the other.

+

The next time Dr. Watson came in, he had Andrew distract him while he made the tea. He handed the cup to him, feeling slightly foolish.

Dr. Watson sipped it, and smiled. “That’s bloody marvellous tea,” he said. “Have you a new supplier?”

“Yes sir, that’s right,” Mr. Chatterjee said.

The next month, when his next order of coffee beans came in, Mr. Chatterjee saw that the invoice had been reduced by 50%.

+

Anna was showing off her engagement ring to the staff, to all the regulars in the café. Every time she showed it to someone else, Nigel blushed and ducked his head, but still looked pleased.

“Congratulations,” Mr. Chatterjee told them. “My grandmother always said that we are very fortunate in this large world to find love.”

He did not say the rest of what his grandmother used to say: “We are fortunate to find love in this big world, but if we are truly blessed, and done good works in our past lives, we might have the extraordinary fortune to find _big_ love.”

He smiled at Nigel and Anna indulgently. It was love, but it wasn’t _big_ love.

+

One night, there were several police cars in the street, and there was an odd tension in the air. Mr. Chatterjee was wondering if there was a particularly big murder for Mr. Holmes to solve, when he heard a gun firing, shockingly close.

“Would everyone please get on your knees!” he heard someone shouting outside. The voice sounded vaguely familiar but Mr. Chatterjee couldn’t think through the sparking of fear.

“Get down! Get down!” he shouted, but all his staff were already hunched over, frozen in the midst of their duties.

Then there was a riot of noise and shouting. Mr. Chatterjee crept forward and locked the front door.

“Everyone go out the back, quickly,” he said. He worried for Mrs. Hudson, and resolved to call on her in the morning.

+

But when he came to open the café in the morning, there was a cluster of people hanging around the door of 221B. Several of them were knocking on the door incessantly.

Mr. Chatterjee unlocked the door of the café, and as the bell jingled, the mass of people turned to look at him as one.

“Mr. Speedy? Mr. Speedy?” they barked. “Was Sherlock Holmes a customer here? What was he like?”

“What are you talking about?” said Mr. Chatterjee.

“Sherlock Holmes, the fake detective, the man who lived here? Can you give us a statement?”

“What has happened?” he demanded.

“He’s dead, jumped off a roof. Confessed to being a fake and committed suicide. Was he a customer?”

Mr. Chatterjee felt himself go pale. He grabbed the counter for support. “No statement. No sir. No statement.”

+

The reporters hung around for hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dr. Watson or Mrs. Hudson. Some of them came in for a coffee.

“I have a special rate for reporters,” he said to them. “Five pounds for a coffee.”

“The sign over there says your coffee is one pound fifty.”

Mr. Chatterjee smiled at them grimly.

Eventually they went away.

+

He hoped Dr. Watson would come by, and he could give him a tea, and that the tea would comfort him. Perhaps he could show Dr. Watson the basket under the counter, show him the laminated sheet of instructions.

Dr. Watson didn’t come by.

+

Time passed. Mrs. Hudson sometimes came in, and Mr. Chatterjee always offered her cake, and never charged her. Anna and Nigel got married, and sometimes Anna would bring in the baby. Andrew quit to become an actor in America, and the boy who replaced him was so witless that Mr. Chatterjee blamed his greying hair on him. Eventually Andrew returned to London, and Mr. Chatterjee happily gave him his job back.

The basket stayed under the counter, but the cloth kept it from getting dusty.

+

One morning, Mr. Holmes walked in. Anna screamed, a little, and Mr. Chatterjee lost control of his jaw.

Mr. Holmes smiled broadly. “Café Americano, please,” he said.

+

The next day the street was full of reporters again. Mr. Chatterjee offered them all a half price discount on their coffees.

+

Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson came in one afternoon, and there was a blonde woman holding Dr. Watson’s hand. They took a seat at the back while Mr. Holmes stayed by the counter, talking on his mobile.

“No, not white freesias, _violet_. To counterpoint the white _roses_ ,” he said. He shouted towards the back, “White roses, wasn’t it, Mary?”

“Yes, white,” she called back.

“White,” Mr. Holmes repeated into the phone. “White. Not blush, not champagne, but white. Be sure of that.” He hung up with a snap. “Café Americano, and two special teas, please, Mr. Chatterjee.”

Mr. Chatterjee glanced to the back of the café, and back to Mr. Holmes. Mr. Holmes’ face was inscrutable. Mr. Chatterjee nodded and set about his work.

A few minutes later he placed the three cups on the counter. “Five pounds fifty, Mr. Holmes,” he said. As Mr. Holmes passed him the cash, Mr. Chatterjee leaned into him. “I do apologize, Mr. Holmes, but I believe I mismeasured one of the teas.”

Mr. Holmes blinked at him. Mr. Chatterjee nodded, and said, “The one on the left.”

Mr. Holmes pressed his lips together. He waved off the change and took the cups to the table.

+

Mr. Chatterjee was surprised to be invited to the wedding. He went, but found it hard to smile at the happy couple. He danced with Mrs. Hudson to avoid looking at them.

+

Mr. Holmes came in nearly every day for the next month. He ordered the special tea and sat in the back, silently, often letting the cup grow cold.

+

Mr. Chatterjee was not in the café the night the ambulance came for Mr. Holmes. He heard about it from Anna the next day. She told him and the rest of the staff about how Dr. Watson walked right next to the stretcher, stepped into the back of the ambulance, and slammed the door in Mrs. Watson’s face.

Mrs. Hudson came to the café in the morning, but would only sit across from Mr. Chatterjee and repeat, “I don’t understand. I just don’t know what to think.”

+

Dr. Watson came down regularly, taking his tea and an Americano to go. Mr. Chatterjee saw the lines on the man’s face deepen as each day went by.

Then he saw neither of them for a terribly long time. Mrs. Hudson didn’t come around – apparently she’d gone to stay with her sister. He wondered if Mr. Holmes was all right, if they still lived there, if they were still solving crimes. He had no one to ask.

+

“Mr. Holmes! It has been a long time! Please, sit, I will bring you your coffee!”

Mr. Chatterjee was glad to see Mr. Holmes – it had been weeks – but was shocked at how pale and gaunt the man was. He slipped a nice slice of coffee cake onto the table in front of Mr. Holmes.

“Thank you,” Mr. Holmes said softly. Mr. Chatterjee believed it was the first time he had heard those words from him.

Mr. Holmes sat there, staring at his coffee, until it grew cold. Mr. Chatterjee replaced it. He thought that Mr. Holmes looked different than he had after the wedding. Then, he had looked dull, drained. Now he just looked tense, and frightened.

Closing time approached, and Mr. Chatterjee was beginning to plan how to tell Mr. Holmes that he had to leave, when the bell rang at the door.

“Sherlock,” said Dr. Watson from the doorway.

He was holding a piece of paper in one hand, an envelope in the other. He waved the paper in the air; he looked stunned, shocked.

“I found your – your letter. I got home and I – I’m sorry, I didn’t see it at first, I only just-” Dr. Watson fell silent, staring at the floor.

Mr. Chatterjee could feel the tension in the room, could sense that something was different. Something was changing.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dr. Watson whispered. “Before I – before…”

“I didn’t know how,” Mr. Holmes said softly.

Mr. Chatterjee wished he could vanish, disappear, lock the door and close the blinds, leave the two men there alone. He felt trapped, an intruder in his own café.

Suddenly Dr. Watson glanced to Mr. Chatterjee, cleared his throat, and the spell was broken. “Um,” Dr. Watson said, looking everywhere but at Mr. Chatterjee or Mr. Holmes. “Look. Um.” He paused, took a deep breath and stood up straight. “Come upstairs, Sherlock? Please? Let’s talk, okay?”

Mr. Holmes gazed at Dr. Watson for a long moment, then slowly stood. He crossed the room, and the two men left in silence.

+

“Large Earl Grey and an Americano, to go please, Andrew.”

“Just a moment, Dr. Watson.”

Mr. Chatterjee looked up from the back of the café where he was wiping down tables. “I’ll make it, Andrew,” he called, and came down to the front.

“Oh, ta, Mr. Chatterjee,” said Dr. Watson, grinning. “You really make the best tea in London.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Mr. Chatterjee snuck glances at Dr. Watson as he prepared the tea. His shoulders were thrown back, he stood straight and tall, the lines in his face were nearly unnoticeable. He was smiling, smiling big.

“John! Come on, Lestrade called! They’ve found another!”

Mr. Chatterjee was looking at Dr. Watson as Mr. Holmes burst through the door. He watched Dr. Watson’s smile broaden, saw the man light up, saw his eyes glow as he looked at Mr. Holmes.

“The bodies aren’t going anywhere, Sherlock,” Dr. Watson said fondly.

Mr. Chatterjee looked at Mr. Holmes, and saw a softness there that he had never seen before. The two men looked at each other, and Mr. Chatterjee knew that the café had disappeared for them.

“On the house, sirs,” he said.

Dr. Watson coughed, and looked a little embarrassed. “Very kind, Mr. Chatterjee,” he said. Mr. Holmes kept gazing at Dr. Watson, with a smile dancing over his face.

“Come on,” Dr. Watson said, as he handed the coffee to Mr. Holmes. “Any luck with a cab?”

“Hm? No, no cab.”

“Let’s walk down to Marylebone, then.”

“Fine.”

They walked through the door, each holding their drink. Mr. Chatterjee watched from the window as Dr. Watson switched his cup to his left hand, reached down, and took Mr. Holmes’ hand into his. Mr. Holmes looked down at their hands, startled, then smiled at Dr. Watson.

“Well, who would have thought it,” said Andrew. “When did that happen, do you think?”

“A long time ago,” Mr. Chatterjee said. He thought of his grandmother and smiled. “They have… extraordinary fortune.”

  

_End_

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to my friend Annie, a for-real tea sommelier, who gave me advice on the tea making.


End file.
